Behind the Red Flag
by The World About To Dawn
Summary: According to Hugo, Alistair Enjolras lowered his eyes with any lady besides Liberty. Well, that is, any lady besides Liberty and his childhood friend Alianne Rousseau. Working together, they manage to spark a revolution. This is the story of one Hugo thought was unimportant, Boubil thought unfitting for a musical, and Hooper simply didn't know about.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: I own Alianne. And that's it.**

**Prologue**

A gunshot. A body flying off the barricade to land with a thump amid pieces of wood and burnt cloth. And a cry from the left side of the barricade.

"Courfeyrac's down!" it went.

Towards the center of the barricade, the combat had become almost exclusively bladework. A young soldier of the National Guard who had picked out the only female on the barricade as an easy target suddenly found himself facing a veritable lioness in girl form.

Said girl ended up kicking the soldier in the groin and off the barricade. She stood still for a moment, her mind overflowing with sorrow and despair. _No. Courfeyrac…it can't be. Brother…_ Her green eyes flashed and she was back in battle, using her shooting lessons when she could, and her fencing lessons when she couldn't.

Suddenly she felt a sharp pain in her chest, a defiance of gravity, and a subsequent multitude of little pains, like the pecks of a hundred sparrows, on her back. Her vision cleared from the smoke of gunfire and she realized that she was lying on the ground, near the door of the café, and her red shirt was wet. And the pain in her chest was throbbing.

She heard footsteps coming towards her and felt her head lifted up and cradled in someone's lap. "Rousseau?" It was Combeferre. "Rousseau's down too!" he shouted.

Weakly, she managed to say "I'm alive, Combeferre. Though barely, I fear."

He brushed the hair back from her face. "You'll be all right. We'll get you fixed up – it's naught but a bullet."

"It's more than that, Combeferre. Listen, could you get Enjolras for me? Please?" she asked.

"Of course," he nodded. Not wanting to leave her, he yelled, "Enjolras! Rousseau's… badly hurt and she's asking for you!"

She relaxed at hearing this, and soon heard another set of footsteps crossing the bloody ground. "What happened?" Enjolras asked anxiously as he knelt beside her.

Shrugging as much as she could in her prone position, she said, "I'm not exactly sure. I heard someone shout that Courfeyrac went down, and well, I guess I went berserk. Next thing I knew, I was here." She gasped suddenly and looked down. "With a great big hole in my chest. Dying, I'm sure."

"Don't talk like that, Alianne. Please," he said, grasping her hand.

"What? You want me to be an optimist?" she asked with a smirk on her face that quickly turned into a grimace of pain.

He sighed. "No, I want you not to lower morale. It's bad enough already."

About to say something, she suddenly seized up and coughed, blood coming out of her mouth. When she was finally able to speak, she smiled, a small, vulnerable smile, and said, "Yes, I think I'm dying."

In response, Enjolras asked Combeferre quietly, "Could you please give us some time alone before she…"

Understanding, Combeferre nodded, took off his jacket so as to make a pillow for her head, and left. When he had gone, Enjolras settled down besides the girl. "This is what I was talking about last night, Alianne. This is why I wanted you to go."

"Enjolras…Alistair…I wouldn't have it any other way. I would rather die here, on the barricade, fighting for freedom, with you." She squeezed his hand. "Just…do something for me, will you?"

"Anything," he promised.

"If you live, find yourself someone else. Don't spend all your time mourning for me. With me you learned love, with her you will learn passion. Please just don't forget me. That's all I ask." She looked up at him and saw the held-back tears shimmering in his grey eyes. "I'm glad it ends this way, if it had to end at all."

Unable to speak, he stroked her cheek lovingly, marveling once again at her pale soft skin and bright green eyes. "Where's Courfeyrac?" she asked. He pointed to where a green-clad figure was lying motionless.

She propped herself up on one elbow, wincing the whole time, and looked towards the body of Nathanael Courfeyrac, the man that she could have sworn was her long-lost brother, if she had had one. "I'll see you soon…" she said, haltingly.

Seeing that beads of sweat had popped out from the strain of simply sitting upright on her forehead, Enjolras gently pushed her down. "Shh, Alianne."

Her breaths were shallower now, and both of them could feel the approach of the black-cloaked wraith, Death. The shouts and cries from the barricade grew louder and more frequent, if that was possible, and she grew worried. "I shouldn't have asked for you. They need you up there."

He shook his head. "I would have come anyways."

"Then, Alistair, will you kiss me one last time? I want to share my last breath with you," she said. He nodded and their lips met. She savored his soft lips and the taste of him for the last time.

When he realized that he had, indeed, shared her last breath, he drew back to closer her eyes, before realizing that they were already closed. Standing up, a single tear running down his cheek, he murmured, "Thus falls Alianne Marie Rousseau, mother and daughter of the barricades and of freedom for France."

She felt, rather than saw, the past few years flashing through her mind. The exchange of letters, her arrival in Paris dressed as a gentleman, the duping of most of Les Amis, the reveal of who she really was (a girl), and finally, the revolution at the barricades.

And then, eternity.


	2. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I own, hmm, let's see...Alianne and her family and the people she writes letters to. And Elizabette Alanis.**

**Chapter 1**

Imagine this – a nicely decorated, say, bedchamber, in the fashion of the early 19th century in France. Easy enough? The walls shall be…golden, and the bedspread…dark red. Now add a young lady, in her morning gown (perhaps a light blue one), sitting at her desk writing a letter. Got it? A quite believable scenario, if I do say so myself. Now, however, we shall take a closer look at the letter itself. It starts out with the usual greeting and updating that comes in letters between friends, but on the back of the first page comes the first shocker. At least, a shocker in that time and place, involving one of that gender in that social position.

"I am glad to hear that you survived the revolution. And succeeded, besides. Louis-Philippe will, hopefully, be a good change. No promises with that, however. It maybe that he intends to return to the old ways, and we cannot have that. Yes, I know, we're in the more fortunate third of society. Does that matter? Am I not allowed to dream of equality, not only for the poor, but for women as well?

"That brings me to another issue I have been intending to discuss with you for a while now. Your shyness around women, Alistair, will do you no good. It is entirely all right if you don't see me as a woman (except at the most annoying times when your inner knight suddenly comes out in a burst of chivalry) but I am not as free as you are; the first example being, of course, that you are at university in Paris and I am not. Honestly, though, if you are to be a leader, be charming. Make the ladies swoon over you. Make me jealous; if you can't (which I foresee) then try.

"Some day, I am going to come visit you in Paris and see if I can improve on your leadership; also, I believe that more women and young girl-chasers (like Courfeyrac, the one that wrote a letter to me, and that Grantaire you keep telling me about) will come if you have a lady in your core group."

The rest of the letter discusses the young lady's daily life, little anecdotes about mutual acquaintences (there is a particularily amusing one involving one Elizabette Alanis, a silk dress, a joke about a frog, and a glass of sherry), and many expressions of her wish to visit him in Paris. Finally, she puts her pen down, stoppers the ink bottle, and folds the letter, sealing it with a few drips of sealing wax she had begged from her father. She sets it down on a small stack of letters addressed to various personages – let us take a look through them while she heads downstairs for a walk in the garden. Ah – one addressed to a Selene Jeanfreau, one for Nathanael Courfeyrac, for Madelein Meyette, and for Therese Painchaud, besides the one just finished. (The reader has probably guessed by now that this young lady is Alianne Rousseau, and her pen pal is Alistair Enjolras.)

The date is August the thirteenth, in the year of our Lord Eighteen-Thirty. The place is number twenty Rue de Arinn, Bordeaux, France. The time is late afternoon.

* * *

Since I assume that Alianne's walk through her garden is not of much interest to the reader, I will touch on another subject. How do I know of Alianne when she is not even mentioned in passing in any of the records of the June 1832 Parisian revolutions? The answer to this question is simple.

My great-great-great-great-great-grandfather was a survivor of the barricades – Marius Pontmercy, his name was. The only survivor of the barricades, in fact, besides that esteemed personage Jean Valjean, also known as Monsieur Madeline and Ultimus Fauchelevent, that the eminent Hugo wrote about. As so, my ancestor wrote a careful chronicle of the revolt and the events leading up to it, which have been handed down from father to son. However, my father had no sons, only daughters, of which I was the firstborn, and as I do not and will not have children, it falls to me to bring the story of Alianne Rousseau, the only one of the core group of Les Amis de ABCs not mentioned anywhere else, to the world. (The earlier parts of Alianne's life, before she met Marius Pontmercy, are carefully researched from her mother's daybook, her own diary when she could be bothered to write in it, and her letters. She was quite a prolific letter-writer.)

Our story, Alianne's story, begins in 1830, as can be seen from the previous section. However, the reader might be interested to know some details about Alianne's background before this time, and so I begin with a brief biographical sketch gathered mostly from church records and the previously mentioned Mrs. Pierre Mouton néé Elizabette Alanis' childhood diary.

Alianne Marie Rousseau was born in 1811 to Émeric Rousseau, a wealthy merchant, and his wife Elienor Rousseau néé Beauchesne in the city of Bourdeaux, France. She had one sibling, a brother, Jean Olivier Rousseau, born 1808. As a child, Alianne behaved like a normal young girl, fond of dollies and frilly dresses and parties. However, her brother had radical ideas from a very young age about equality, money distribution, and public welfare, and she agreed with all of his ideas (except for the money distribution that consisted of equalizing all the money in France). As such, whenever he was back from his boarding school, she was educated (to her mother's constenteration and her father's approval) in arithmetic, reading and writing, Latin, English, and politics. Her mother finally did give in and allow her formal schooling later in life, but that is beside the point. Because of this, as a ten-year-old, Alianne observed the turmoil in her country and resolved to find a way to change France.

This is where our other main character comes in. Alistair Enjolras, Alianne's neighbor. He also went off to boarding school, albeit not the same one as Jean Rousseau, and eventually to university in Paris, though not before forging a tight (platonic for the most part) bond with Alianne. Yes, this is the same Enjolras that led the 1832 rebellions. He and Alianne influced each other, so to speak, mostly through letters, to take the path in life that they took up to their death in June 1832.

That seems like quite enough background for the reader. On to the real attraction.

* * *

The garden used to be well-kept, colorful, and enchanting. It is still two of those – and most definitely not well-kept. Why? Thankfully not because Alianne had a parent or sibling or even any kind of person that could vaguely be described as a family member died tragically, and as a consequence her family became poor and her house became run-down. Nothing along those lines at all; as a matter of fact, it is simply that the family had bought the house in 1820, when Émeric Rousseau had finally amassed enough money to buy his family a "more suitable" house. However, no one in the family had any passion for gardening whatsoever, and as so they did not find it necessary to hire a gardener. In fact, it was not until Alianne decided that she was getting much too old for retiring to her closet when she wanted to think that the garden was in use again. Surprisingly enough, while the garden had been unkempt for years, it was now overgrown in an enchanting rather than ominous sort of way, with unpruned bushes still green and flourishing with flowers and creeping tendrils of ivy hanging on the stone wall like some exquisite tapestry. When Alianne first discovered (or rather _un_covered) the garden, she brought up the idea of hiring a gardener with her parents, but it was quickly shot down because she was the only one who had any interest in the garden whatsoever. Undaunted by this, she decided to take the care of the garden into her own hands, sewing herself a gardening dress and going out to buy gardening tools and gloves.

As soon as she got home from her little shopping expedition, she changed and went out into the garden, ready to get some work done, never mind that she didn't know the least bit about gardening. This fact came into play with full force as she spent her entire afternoon out there achieving absolutely nothing besides getting thorn scratches all over her legs, insect bites…everywhere, and even (somehow) a small cut from some hedge clippers that she had left lying around the garden and tripped over.

After this escapade Alianne, while she still walked in the garden whenever she wanted to think, never did any work on the garden more than just clearing leaves, vines, and fallen branches from the path and the top of an overgrown stone bench. It is on this bench that she is sitting right now, in fact, thinking on the state of women's rights in France and ranting at them – in her head, of course. Like the very reason why she is not allowed to go to university in Paris when Alistair can, as she stated in her letter – she is a woman and therefore deemed unfit to go to any type of school not run by a convent especially for young ladies of breeding.

Presently she gets up and returns to the house, stopping by the kitchens to snatch a small bread roll to munch on, even though there are only two hours left until dinner. As such, she wanders back to her bedroom, where she selects a book at random from her bookshelf and begins to read (from a random page)– a classic and one of her favorites, Plato's _Republic_.

"If women are expected to do the same work as men, we must teach them the same things," she reads. _Well, Providence is kind to me today. Either that or it's mocking me. _Suddenly she realizes that, while Alistair might take her comments somewhat seriously, a comment from Plato would drive home her point. "That means I'm going to have to unseal and reseal the letter," she grumbles. "Ah well, it's better than having to remember this for the next time he sends me a letter, which for all I know won't be for a year, knowing his sporadic writing habits." Having so decided on this, she goes to her desk, unseals the letter that she had written to Alistair, picks up her pen, and adds a postscript.

"Postscript: From Plato, this gem. 'If women are expected to do the same work as men, we must teach them the same things.' Think about that, will you? -AMR"

In the process of resealing the letter, she drips hot wax on her hand, curses loudly, prays that no one heard her say words that a respectable young lady really should not know, and sets the letter down. She then sits down with her book and her bread roll and proceeds to eat and read nonchalantly as if nothing had happened.

* * *

A few days later, in Paris, Alistair Enjolras is in exceedingly high spirits. Charles X has been overthrown, he has money in his pocket, and _he did not get expelled for being absent for three days_. On his way home from his job as a clerk for a (relatively liberal) lawyer, he runs into Lesgles, with Joly, as per the norm, and noticably without anything that looked like it could be used in schoolwork.

Curious, he asks, "Did you not have class today, Bossuet?"

The Eagle of Meaux laughs and shakes his head. "I got kicked out yesterday."

"How?" Enjolras asks, taken aback.

"One of my classmates, by the name of Marius Pontmercy, didn't show up yesterday. You know, that one who's always dressed shabbily, but you can tell he's got money somewhere in his background? Courfeyrac's friend?" Enjolras simply motions for him to go on. "Well, so when the roll was called, he didn't respond. And in our hall, there is this rule, albeit hardly used, that if one does not answer when his name is called three times, his name is summarily stricken off the list."

Enjolras recoils. "If that was a rule in my hall, I would have been gone a year ago. Continue. Then what happened?"

"Well, naturally, I helped the poor guy out and answered for him when I realized that he wasn't there, and so he was marked down as present and accounted for."

"And how did that get you kicked out?"

"Why are you so interested in this, Enjolras?"

"I need to know how it works in your hall. I don't want to get expelled from my own school, you know what I mean?"

"Oh. Well, anyways, that prick, Blondeau, who loves to hunt out absentees was calling the roll, and he, for some reason I cannot comprehend, decided to move onto the L's next, and, as my completely and utterly nonexistant luck would have it, he calls my name first. Maybe he knew that it was me filling in for that Pontmercy kid. So I answer 'Here' again, and you know what he said? 'If you are Pontmercy, you are not Lesgles. Therefore Lesgles is not here,' and with that he crossed my name out with a flourish of his pen. I stayed there for the rest of class since I was already using Pontmercy's name, but I passed him in the street today when he was on the way to class."

"That's terrible. What are you going to do? Do you have to go back home? Your family lives in Meaux, don't they?"

"Oh, I have no concerns about that. I never wanted to be a lawyer, anyways. Too much pageantry and all that," Lesgles says, waving a nonchalant hand. "I'll get myself a clerical job or something of the sort."

"What about your father? Won't he disown you for this?" Joly looks at him askance.

"It's only sixty francs, anyways. And while he was set on the idea of me becoming a lawyer, he'll be fine if I simply make a place for myself in this world."

"He hasn't disowned you already?" Enjolras asks curiously. "After the rebellion and all?"

Laughing again, Lesgles shakes his head. "He'd have no heir if he disowned me. And that's one of his biggest worries – he's deathly afraid of his estate going to people he has no connections with in an auction."

"I'm pretty sure my father shares your sentiments, seeing as that he doesn't even care about my…revolutionary propensities anymore. Well, he doesn't seem as bothered by it as he used to be – he hasn't refurnished my room back at home all in black and declared that I was dead like he did once…" Enjolras says thoughtfully, remembering one quite awkward return home. "Well, anyways, good luck with your father. I have to go home so I can get my mail before Mrs. Rotier reads it."

"Your housekeeper reads your mail?" Joly asks in horror as Enjolras strides off. "That's horrible!"

As he watches Enjolras walk away, Lesgles remarks, "At least he doesn't have some secret mistress who writes him letters, _Joly_."

"Musichetta never found out!" his friend tries to defend himself.

Although he is trying to act nonchalant, Enjolras has trouble stifling his laughter at this converstation he overhears. Shaking his head at his friends' antics, he heads homeward, seriously afraid that his landlady is going to read his mail. Normally he doesn't mind that too much – after all, she's the one who cleans his room (for a small fee) and presumably goes through all of his stuff. But he's expecting a letter from Alianne today, and he doesn't want to get hell from Mrs. Rotier for having a mistress (even though he's insisted multiple times that Alianne is _not_ his mistress) and not telling her (which, unfortunately, has happened many times already).

Luck (or maybe long legs) is with him today – he unlocks the door to his room to find an unopened pile (well, not really pile, as there are only two) of letters sitting on his table. He picks up the first one – the bimonthly missive from his mother who, for some unknown reason, is intent on making sure he doesn't draw away from the family – sits down, and begins to read. As per the usual, there is not much that is extremely of interest to him, but he does chuckle a bit over his father's scribbled note ("Can't write too much today – the post is leaving soon and the confounded dog seems bent on spilling the ink") and an accompanying black pawprint that seems to confirm his father's statement and rolls his eyes good-naturely at his mother's "I pray you didn't get yourself killed with that little rebellion, I would never forgive you if you did". He moves on to write a concise (or as his mother would say, short) reply to the letter.

"August the 16th, 1830

My dear mother and father,

I hope this letter finds you as well as I have been feeling as of late since those three glorious days. As you can see, I did survive 'that little rebellion', so you can rest your wrath, Mother. While I am quite happy to go on and on about it, I will not bore you with the details, so suffice it to say that Charles the Tenth is overthrown, and King Louis-Philippe is on the throne. The king is gone; long live the King. Other than that, well, I am quite happy to say that my employer actually did participate in the revolution, and so I still have my job, of course, and so, yes, Mother, I am eating quite well (and drinking, besides).

Another issue that I assume you would wish to know about, seeing as that many universities here in Paris will expel one for simply being late, is that no, I have not been expelled, thank God. I do not know why – perhaps my college is very lenient, or maybe so many students were in the rebellions that it would lose a significant amount of money in tuition fees should we all be expelled, or simply that there is no such rule. As a matter of fact, however, I have a friend who was expelled from his college because he filled in for one of _his _friends when he wasn't there. The foolishness of some people strikes me as profoundly obvious.

Father, I have never understood why you bought that little pest. If it is so bothersome, turn it out onto the streets or the like. (No, little Carressa, I was not serious.)

Your son,  
Alistair Enjolras"

Now that he is done with this (somewhat annoying) chore, he moves onto the other letter, which, frankly, he had been looking forward to much more than the one from his parents. Alianne's letter.

He reads the first page and a half with marginally more interest than he did the letter from his parents. Frankly, he cares almost nothing for the details of her everyday life and the stories about her family, friends, and pets, and has wished to tell her this many times so that she could save both paper, ink, and effort, but has always decided against it because he doesn't wish to offend her and maybe arouse her ire (which is quite intimidating, even for one as strongwilled as he is.) However, once he reaches the interesting parts – in other words, the parts of her letter that have been written in this chapter previously – he begins to write his reply, writing as he reads as he always does in his letters with Alianne.

"August the 16th, 1830

Alianne,

You and your women's rights. My God, Alianne. I do apologize for what appears to be callousness, but this is not the most important thing to be thinking of right now. Yes, I do suppose you are allowed to dream of equality for women, but that is about the only thing you should be focusing on. Dreaming. Why? Because, in your position right now, you have the ear of one of the most influential, if not necessarily high-ranked, people in Bordeaux. Your father is doing very well, and in fact holds at least a quarter of the workforce in the city. Talk to him, Alianne. Look at his ways – how he treats his workers, those who buy from him, those who he buys from. See if you can change them, if you need to be changed.

To the subject of my so-called 'shyness'. Most women that I have met are much more airheaded and have much less to say that is actually meaningful. I am not 'shy' around women, I simply do not wish to talk to them*, for good reason, too. It has been brought to my attention (by some lady friends of Combeferre's) that I am good-looking and would have many mistresses if only I tried. I do not have any appetite for that sort of thing, as I am repeatedly reiterating. The ladies are already swooning over me just for my (apparently) pretty face. Charm? I do not think so, Alianne. There is no use.

And, Alianne, for the record, we _do not _allow any women into our meetings. Not now, not ever. It's not my rule – it's Jehan Prouvaire's, and I do not believe it needs to be turned down. He thinks that the matters that we discuss are too lofty for ladies, and I quite agree. For most ladies, anyways. There is no need for you to come visit me in Paris – your ideas are already here. At least, Courfeyrac is telling many of the ideas you express in your letters to him, and I am too, as some of them are quite beneficial.

Alistair

Postscript: *Except you. -AME"

He puts these two letters into his jacket pocket and heads out again, planning to go to the Café Musain to dine and have a drink with whoever happens to be there at the time after he drops off the letters. Hopefully it's going to be Combeferre and most certainly _not_ that fool Grantaire.

* * *

**A short note from the one known as tWAtD, from now on also known as Kestrel:**

**I think I'm going to split at least these first few chapters into pairs of letters. Or rather, snippets of pairs of letters. How do you guys think that'll work?**

**Oh, I got myself a copy of The Brick (finally). Now I can confirm things that I had thought I read but wasn't exactly sure of. Because I'm like that. Speaking of which, I think I'm going to have to ignore the three bayonet thrusts to the chest that Hugo describes as being Courfeyrac's death. I JUST realized that I messed that up. -_- So…yeah. Moving on. Hope you liked it! Please review! Or follow! Or favorite! OR ALL THREE! :D **

**-tWAtD or Kestrel**


	3. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I own Alianne, her family, Josseline, Madelein, Seléne, and Thérèse. **

**Chapter 2**

Even as serious and dismissive of the petty things as she is, Alianne still enjoys a good party (and ball, much to her consteration) and so she is overjoyed to hear that there is to be a dinner party at the Meyette home, hosted by her dear friend Madelein, who has only recently returned from a holiday. She's also looking forward to the diversion it will create from the endless listlessness and boredom that the end of summer has brought. Personally, she'd still rather visit Paris and sit in on a lecture than gossip with some of the more airheaded of Madelein's friends. However, she has not seen Madelein in months, nor a backstabbing traitor that didn't bother to write her letters while she was off having fun in the countryside and Alianne was roasting like a Christmas goose in the heat of mid-summer Bordeaux, as Alianne so delicately put it as a complaint in a letter to Madelein. I do speak of Josseline Coté, Alianne's dearest friend.

* * *

I think I might say a bit about Alianne's friends here, as the subject would have come up eventually and this seems like a good place to bring it up. There were originally five of them, schoolmates at the Ligueux Abbey – Josseline, Alianne, Madelein, Seléne Jeanfreau, and Thérèse Painchaud (néé Lacossé). Seléne was boarding at the school and went back home to Lyon when they left at the age of 15, and Thérèse, horror of horrors, got married to a family friend who lived in Paris. So it was just the three of them left in Bordeaux, unmarried and intending to have as much fun as they can while still being relatively respectable.

Josseline was like Alianne in many ways – they both loved learning, resented not being able to go to any kind of school after Ligueux, and were what could be contrued as lazy. However, for one, Josseline had silky, beautiful blond hair and blue eyes that made her stand out while Alianne, with her long wavy brown hair and green eyes often blended into the background. In addition, Josseline was also much more fun-loving than Alianne and less skeptical.

On the other hand, Madelein had a bit of the Spaniard in her, a bit darker-skinned and brown-eyed. She was the most dramatic of the quintet, and Josseline often joked that she was going to become a theatre actress someday, which was always met with a stony glare and a declamation of some line from a play or another.

Seléne was the quietest of the group, very bookish, and – dare I say it – homely, with brown eyes and hair of an odd blond color that was almost orange. However, when she could be induced to speak, she was also the wittiest of the group, and her little sayings that would go unnoticed if one didn't listen closely were often more present in her letters than in her actual company.

Thérèse had been the first to marry for good reason – she was the belle of the ball where ever she went, and had a boatload of charm to boot. The most lighthearted of them all, admittedly, Thérèse's educational standards were not nearly as high as Josseline, Alianne, and Seléne wished for them to be, but she more than made up for it with her optimism and cheer. She was also the comforter of the group, a much-needed personage with Alianne's pessimism.

* * *

Alianne has not seen Seléne in five years or Thérèse in one and a half, but they kept up a good correspondence through letters. As a matter of fact, in an odd turn of events that show that yes, it is a small world, Thérèse's husband, a lawyer, employs one of Alistair Enjolras' closest friends as his secretary. Consequently, while Alianne knows next to none of Alistair's friends, she _did_ run into Nathanael Courfeyrac once when she was visiting _her_ friend. Perhaps this explains the constant correspondence between the two; perhaps it is better explained by the simple fact that Courfeyrac is a girl-chaser – always had been and always will be. Either way, Alianne met him at this point (and discovered that he was very close friends with Alistair), and grew close to him quite a while before they could actually spend time together. Surprisingly, however, their relationship remains entirely platonic, partially because of the whole long-distance issue and partially because both Alianne and Courfeyrac have no wish whatsoever to enter into a commited relationship.

Nevertheless, it comes as a great surprise to Alianne (and to Courfeyrac) when she sees him pop up at the party at the Meyettes'. Well, at least a good part of her surprise comes from the fact that Courfeyrac is accompanying Thérèse, who Alianne most definitely was _not_ expecting to show up at all. Not at least without telling her in advance. Naturally, Alianne makes her way over to where Thérèse is sitting, resplendent in a deep crimson gown, a few feet away from where the skirts of the elite of Bordeaux are clustering.

"Thérèse! What on earth are you doing here? And where's Blaise?" she asks, naturally filled with curiousity.

Her friend waves a nonchalant hand. "Lying low. Me, that is. Not him." Alianne's expression (head cocked to one side, lips pursed like she'd eaten a lemon) tells Thérèse that an explanation is in order, and so with a sigh, she tells the story. "So, you've met Nathanael here, right?" A small mutter of protest escapes Courfeyrac's lips at being referred to by his first name, but of course Thérèse ignores this. "And you know how…flirtatious he can be." Another muffled noise. "Well, so he keeps on flirting with me, and normally I don't mind it."

"Obviously," Alianne mutters. "Being you."

Either Thérèse doesn't hear this remark or simply chooses to ignore it, but she continues with her explanation. "And, not being the sharpest knife in the drawer, Nathanael decides to do it in front of my husband."

"Hey!" Courfeyrac protests. "I'm in law school, aren't I?"

Thérèse rolls her eyes as she lifts a glass of wine to her lips. "_Anyways_, you could imagine Blaise's reaction. He was none too happy about it and accused me of cheating on him."

"Finally gotten jealous, has he now?" remarks Alianne, snatching a _petit four_ from a passing tray. "Not that you've ever actually _done_ anything…"

Shrugging, Thérèse sighs. "He's under so much stress lately, it doesn't take much to get him riled up. Nathanael here decided it would be in his best interests to leave Paris for the time being, and as Blaise was extraordinarily mad at me as well – you wouldn't believe it, Alianne – I decided to leave too." (At this moment Courfeyrac decides to walk towards the skirts.) "Josseline agreed to take me in for the time being because I don't think I would have been able to stand Madelein's theatrics, charming as the girl is."

"And Courfeyrac is staying with Josseline too?" Alianne asks out of curiosity.

Her friend nods. "It's not the most desirable arrangement, but it'll have to do. Thank God Josseline has no interest in him. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go find Madelein – I haven't talked to that girl in who knows how long. Nathanael probably went to find the ladies. Just look for the clump of overly expensive cloth and you'll find him."

She walks off, leaving Alianne staring after her. "Overly expensive cloth?" she mutters. "Ah well, I'll go and find him. Maybe rescue some girls in the process."

Strangely enough, Courfeyrac is standing in a corner, nonchalantly sipping from a glass of white wine and watching those of the upper crust of Bordeaux mingle and chat. Alianne spies him, appearing as if he's hiding behind a curtain. She quickly makes her way over to him and taps him on the shoulder while he's looking the other way. He sputters and turns around. Smiling, she curtsies lightly. "Monsieur Courfeyrac? I believe we have met before."

He cocks his head, thinking (and amusing Alianne with his muttering, e.g. "She can't be _that _one – she was from the north." "Not Claire either – somehow doesn't look like one." "Maybe Arielle?" "Or Margaux?") Finally, he gives up. "I'm sorry, miss, I cannot remember your name for the life of me, although I would be most pleased to make your acquaintance again."

Alianne laughs. "Forgotten my face already? In the two minutes or so that have passed since you left our converstation? Oh, for God's sake, it's me, Alianne. I don't know _how _many women you consistently write non-love letters to, but it can't be _that_ many, what with your flirtatious tendencies."

"_Mon Dieu_, I'm an idiot," he says as he laughs along with her. "To think that I've forgotten your voice already, Alianne!"

Shrugging, Alianne replies, "My voice isn't _that_ unique, is it? Anyways, what are you doing in this corner? Thérèse and I both thought you would be out there socializing and, well, forming some not-so-platonic relationships."

"I would be, if it wasn't for one of those girls in that crowd. Can't even remember her name. Paula, Pauline, something along those lines. She remembers me though, most unfortunately."

"What did you do to her? Jilt her at the altar or something? I wouldn't put it past you to do that," Alianne smirks.

Courfeyrac sighs. "Come on. I'm not that bad, am I?"

"You kind of are, Courfeyrac. I just thank God every day that you've not decided to flirt with me, too." Alianne looks around for a servant bearing a tray of red wine – she's getting thirsty. She finds one and waves him over, taking a long-stemmed glass from the silver platter and taking a sip.

"You know, if you were thirsty, you could have had some of mine." Courfeyrac holds out his own glass.

Rolling her eyes, Alianne sighs. "My luck has run out, it seems. Now the famed Nathanael Courfeyrac has finally deigned to flirt with me as well."

"That's not f-" he protests weakly.

She laughs. "Yes, it is. When you offer a girl your drink, and it's some kind of fine wine, I would take that as flirting. Ah well, I don't think anyone in a skirt could escape you and your so-called charm."

"So-called?" he sputters, mock-indignantly. "Excuse me, but who was the first one to write a letter to the other?"

"That's because, strangely enough, I found some of your converstation to be marginally interesting, and I wanted to continue the part of it that showed me you actually had a brain."

"Really now?"

"Well, and that I wanted to know what Alistair was up to in Paris that he wouldn't tell me about. That too," Alianne concedes.

Courfeyrac raised his eyebrows. "So nothing about my exceedingly good looks? Or my charm in general?"

"Exceedingly good looks? The only proof I have of that is what you've told me and the strange attraction many women have towards you. Which," she holds up a hand, "most certainly does NOT apply to me."

"Are you sure about that?" He leans inwards, closer to her, so that their heads are almost touching. She drains her glass and holds it out to the other side, an invisible servant whisking it out of her hand. This distraction gone, she flings her arms around his neck, pulling him closer. He wraps his arms around her waist and draws her in for a kiss. Their lips -

Never mind.

Back up, back up, back up.

That did not just happen.

And Courfeyrac wouldn't have cared anyways, girl-chaser that he is. Alianne would have been only one of many Claires, Arielles, Margauxes, Paulines, Paulas, Thérèses…there one moment and gone the next.

He would have been a fleeting moment of pleasure, like a romp in the countryside soon over and forgotten.

And so it goes.

"Are you sure about that?" He leans inwards, closer to her, so that their heads are almost touching.

She laughs. "Yes, of course I'm sure of that, 'Feyrac." Suddenly, she places her hand on his chest and pushes him away. "You seem oddly…amorous towards a girl you've only met once before."

"Letters can mean a lot," he says, laughing as well, unaffected by her (seeming) rejection. "Speaking of letters, has Enjolras made a move on you yet?"

"What? No!" she exclaims, surprised. "First of all, how did you jump from letters to Alistair wanting to walk out with me? And secondly, _why on earth _would Alistair 'make a move on me', as you so crudely put it?"

He nods sagely, and she laughs as he continues, "Didn't think so. They call him 'Apollo', did you know that? Well, even Apollo had his lovers – Daphne, Hecuba, Cyrene, Cassandra – and ours most definitely needs one."

"If I was a man I would hit you."

"If you were a man we wouldn't be having this converstation, because you're not Grantaire."

"I honestly do not know how on earth to respond to that. Who is this Grantaire?"

"Only Enjolras' most ardent admirer and possibly lover. Although I don't think our Apollo feels the same way about Grantaire."

"Patria, right? While, yes, I do share his sentiments and his ideals, I think _falling in love with his country_ is a bit too much. Especially when the very word 'Patria' in Latin means 'fatherland', implying masculinity," Alianne observes.

"Your point being? He does have that small issue of being so deathly shy around any females. Except for you. I think."

"Can we please move on from this subject?"

* * *

The clock strikes eleven, the partygoers disperse, and Alianne is escorted home by Courfeyrac, for some unknown reason that only he knows. She invites him to stay a few nights at her house (after all, Jean is at home right now) and he politely declines. Of course he would, in front of her parents.

She enters her room, changes into her nightgown, climbs into bed, and then sees the letters lying on her desk. She sighs, "I'll get to those tomorrow," and falls asleep.

Dreaming of Paris.

**Another note from the one who WANTS REVIEWS (aka tWAtD):**

'**Sup homiezzz. *gangsta face* I'm trying to figure out how to make the story move faster without making it seem like Alianne's life is just FULL OF ADVENTURE because it's not. She'll be the first to tell you. I kind of just want to skip to the interesting parts (i.e. the part where she FINALLY GOES TO PARIS) but that doesn't come chronologically for a while yet. :P And no letters in this chapter, because, well…I LIKE COURFEYRAC TOO MUCH. Was Courfeyrac's characterization/random appearance too strange? Tell me if you liked! REVIEW PLEASE! Even if it was a short chapter…**

**Oh, and I AM A TOTAL IDIOT. I forgot about disclaimers. So, you copyright freaks, they are up. (Although Les Mis **_**is**_** public domain… ;) ) And I also realized that yes, Combeferre is the one who gets three bayonet thrusts to the chest. So…**

**Don't judge my French names. I get them off a name generator because I CANNOT think of any for my life.**

**-tWAtD or Kestrel**


	4. Chapter 3

***insert witty disclaimer here***

**Chapter 3**

Sunlight streams into the well-appointed chamber through a crack between the heavy curtains, bathing the room (and its single occupant) in light. She yawns, stretches, and throws an arm over her eyes, shadowing them from the unwanted intrusion of the light; however, the light cannot be banished no matter how hard she wishes and cowers. Sighing, she throws off her blankets and swings her legs over the edge of the bed, sitting up and rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

She steps over to the window, pulling the drapery apart and wincing at the light that pours in. "How long did I sleep?" she wonders. But as she has no way to determine this, she dresses quickly and gets down to the business of writing replies to the letters on her desk. The top one comes from Seléne.

"August the 16th, 1830

Lyon, France

Alianne, my dear,

I love how you tell me all of this as if you think I care. I really do. But, well, whatever makes you happy, I suppose, as long as you don't expect me to read it all. I _was_ slightly amused by Elizabette Alanis and her (ruined, right?) silk dress. Perhaps a year or two younger than us? That one with the older brother both you and Madelein find quite attractive, right? Yes, I think that's her.

I suppose I must return the favor and tell _you_ what I've been up to lately. That is, not much, if anything. Nothing of interest ever happens in Lyon; at least, nothing that I hear of. Whenever I _do_ hear of something, it's usually of no importance whatsoever – parties, scandals, et cetera. However, I have come upon one piece of very distressing news – my parents are thinking of marrying me off. Now, I am fully aware of the apparently distressing fact that I'm not a great beauty; however, my parents seem convinced that they will be able to find someone for me. I don't even know how to react to this. I guess as long as he's not overcontrolling I'll be fine. I sit at home and read every day anyways, and I can cook and clean, but that's about it. He better not expect me to do needlework though. Anything new with you? You've got good parents though so I'm not sure. Madelein will tell me absolutely nothing, as she is wont to do.

I think that you're a bit too ambitious for your own good – at least with your women's rights and all. If you look at the Americas, with their brilliant example as the first democracy in the modern world, you'll still see that their women aren't much freer than we are here in France. Maybe men just don't understand, but whichever way it is I don't think that we're going to get equality anytime soon. Sorry, Alianne. It's something we all have to deal with (some of us more than others, you being one of the luckier ones).

Have you seen Thérèse yet? She told me that she was escaping to Bordeaux after a little, well, spat with her husband. If you ask me, I say that this is a totally unfair turn of events. Here _I_ am, stuck in Lyon, while the four of you are down in Bordeaux having fun. Well, I'm not one for travel anyways (it's too strenuous unless one's rich, and then it's too much of an event to be any fun whatsoever) so I will just sit here and quietly fume over being left out.

Cheers,

Seléne Jeanfreau"

Alianne's marginally miffed at being sent such a short letter but, as there's absolutely nothing she can do about it, she begins her reply.

"August 20th, 1830

Bordeaux, France

Seléne,

Fine then, I won't say anything about my own life besides that what you've asked me. Have it your way. But yes, that's the one – do we honestly know any other Elizabettes? No? I didn't think so.

Somehow I can't imagine you getting married – no offense intended or anything. Can't see you in a fancy dress, caravan of carriages heading towards the cathedral, the wedding party, anything like that. You'll have to keep me updated on this issue, but I feel that between the bachelorette (is that even a word?) Seléne and the married Seléne, the difference could be summed up in one phrase – interaction with a husband. Nothing else will change, at least nothing that I can think of. Maybe you're a hidden romantic and I just don't know it (but I'm pretty sure that's Madelein). Maybe you already have an affair with some dashing dandy who can ignore your, well, somewhat unappetizing appearance, focus on your beautiful soul and has already proposed to you, but you haven't worked up the nerve to tell your parents yet!

There is absolutely _nothing_ wrong with ambition, as long as one doesn't let it cloud one's moral compass. A girl can dream, can't she? Anyways, the United States of America isn't much closer to perfection than we are – they simply had the chance to create a democracy and they went for it. Slavery is still in place in the Americas. Poverty is just as much of a problem in the Americas as it is here in France. Their democracy versus our monarchy was, is, simply a stroke of luck, nothing more. However, right now the issue isn't as much an issue of _rights_ as it is an issue of the way society views women. It wouldn't matter if France suddenly became a democracy and women were given the vote and all the other rights of men, as long as the people of France still believe that women are delicate creatures who need to be coddled, we are not free. We cannot change the views of society; however, we can change ourselves. With the change in us, we can change others, and then we might see a change in the world.

Thérèse? That little brat never told me that she was coming home (but then again, she rarely responds to letters.) I didn't know that she was coming back to Bordeaux until I _saw her at a party _the Meyettes were hosting. She could at least have given me some warning that she was coming! And she explained the nature of this spat, as you put it, with her husband. I don't know if she's explained it to you yet, but, well, she was accused of having an affair with Blaise' (very flirtatious) secretary, which she did not have. The secretary came along to Bordeaux as well, and they're staying with Josseline until it blows over. Honestly, I wish you could come down and visit us, but I suppose your aversion to travel supersedes all of _my_ wishes.

Until next time,

Alianne"

Being too impatient to wait for the ink to dry on the paper, she sprinkles a pinch of blotting sand over the letter and shakes it off, folding it up and sealing it with some red wax. She then moves on to the next letter – it's from Alistair.

"August the 16th, 1830

Paris, France

Alianne,

You and your women's rights. My God, Alianne. I do apologize for what appears to be callousness, but this is not the most important thing to be thinking of right now. Yes, I do suppose you are allowed to dream of equality for women, but that is about the only thing you should be focusing on. Dreaming. Why? Because, in your position right now, you have the ear of one of the most influential, if not necessarily high-ranked, people in Bordeaux. Your father is doing very well, and in fact holds at least a quarter of the workforce in the city. Talk to him, Alianne. Look at his ways – how he treats his workers, those who buy from him, those who he buys from. See if you can change them, if you need to be changed.

To the subject of my so-called 'shyness'. Most women that I have met are much more airheaded and have much less to say that is actually meaningful. I am not 'shy' around women, I simply do not wish to talk to them*, for good reason, too. It has been brought to my attention (by some lady friends of Combeferre's) that I am good-looking and would have many mistresses if only I tried. I do not have any appetite for that sort of thing, as I am repeatedly reiterating. The ladies are already swooning over me just for my (apparently) pretty face. Charm? I do not think so, Alianne. There is no use.

And, Alianne, for the record, we _do not _allow any women into our meetings. Not now, not ever. It's not my rule – it's Jehan Prouvaire's, and I do not believe it needs to be turned down. He thinks that the matters that we discuss are too lofty for ladies, and I quite agree. For most ladies, anyways. There is no need for you to come visit me in Paris – your ideas are already here. At least, Courfeyrac is telling many of the ideas you express in your letters to him, and I am too, as some of them are quite beneficial.

Alistair

Postscript: *Except you. -AME"

Unconsciously, she smiles as she reads the letter, more with the simple joy of seeing his handwriting than with the actual content of his letter; she will never admit it, not even to herself, but she misses him.

"August 20th, 1830

Bordeaux, France

Alistair,

All right, I see how it is. You think we are just naturally below you in the social order, right? Yes? No? Well, that's what _I _gathered from that first paragraph. And, well, I resent this, Alistair. I really do. Yes, I know that my father is very influential, what with his connections and his trade, but it depends on the problem we are trying to solve. Yes, I have been to my father's office (and his factory since he turned to manufacturing cloth), and no, there is nothing that I believe needs to be my father's business at least. Which means that I can turn my attention onto this issue. What we have to realize, though, is that much of our problems lie in society, not in the government, as one could well see from the abundance of pesky royalists in the upper class. Or the Bonapartists. Or really any of those groups in France. But, well, say if we became a democracy and gave everyone the vote. I mean _everyone_ – the élite, middle-class, the poor, women, those not of French ethnicity. If this happened all of a sudden – say, in the next year – I predict that less than half of those who had the vote would actually use it. If you think about it, women make up half the population in the world, and I would think that most women wouldn't vote for fear of criticism, being judged, or simply being wrong, because they're not used to having a say in anything. Many of the poor might be too busy to pay any attention to politics whatsoever, and of course colored people would still be slaves (unless you would prefer we ban slavery as well) so their masters might not let them vote. Note that this is a totally hypothetical situation, but you get my drift, I hope. What I'm trying to say is that you shouldn't focus too much on trying to change the _government_ instead of trying to change the _people_. Personally, I believe that revolutions achieve next to nothing compared to what could be achieved simply by informing the people first.

Moving on. Alistair, we all have things we do not wish to do – talking to women should be the least of your worries. In an entirely platonic way, let me tell you that you are, in fact, very good-looking, and could potentially draw many women to these meetings that you hold. But of course, this _Jehan Prouvaire_ (what kind of crazy literature student spells "Jean" "_Jehan_"?)'s rules must prevail. So you're saying that if I happened to come to Paris to, say, visit Thérèse, and happened to stop by the Café Musain, you wouldn't let me into the upstairs meeting. All right then, that's good to know. I'll make sure not to come visit you in Paris at all.

Joking, Alistair. Joking. Well, it's nice to know that at least my _ideas_ are being spread…

Alianne"

She blots this letter as well, folding it up and sealing it before carrying it and the other one down the hall to her father's study to slip it in the large pile of letters that her parents write, mostly business from her father and missives to relatives from her mother. They don't know that she writes so many letters but she sees no reason to inform them of this, as she's always the first one to ask for the daily mail anyways.

Suddenly she hears someone calling her name – it's their housekeeper, Madame Loussont. "Mademoiselle? Mademoiselle Alianne? It's a gentleman calling for you. Come on down to the parlor, please." She does so, and while she is going down the stairs, she passes the portly matron, who comments, "Have you told your parents yet that you are seeing someone? I'm not entirely sure if they would approve. He doesn't look so…respectable, if I may be so bold."

Confused, Alianne asks, "Did he give his name?"

"Nathanael something. Coufée, Ferac, something like that. Dressed like a workingman," Madame Loussont tutted as she continued her way up the stairs.

Alianne stops for a second, leaning against the banister, and rubs her temples. _What on earth is _Courfeyrac _doing here? _However, the only way for her to find out is to go down and ask him, so reluctantly, she goes on to the parlor.

Courfeyrac's leaning nonchalantly against the doorframe, either too polite or too bored to wait in the actual parlor for her. When he sees her, he stands up straight, smiling cockily. "Hello, Alianne."

"What are you _doing_ here?" she demands.

"What do you think I'm doing? I wanted to say hi," he smirks, "but your pesky housekeeper directed me to the servants' entrance. How entirely cliché and romance novel-ish is that?"

"Too much," she agrees. "But you know, you _could _have dressed in marginally more, well, fitting clothes for one of even your station. It's not like you're actually in the working class, you're just a student."

He shrugs. "Well, um, our flight from Paris wasn't exactly planned as well as I thought it would be, and I neglected to pack my finer clothes."

"But what about those you wore at the party?" she persists.

"Borrowed from Josseline's brother. He's pretty nice, all things considered," he remarks.

"All things considered? You should be grateful that he is even letting you _stay at Joss's house_! He doesn't know you at all and the only things he's ever heard about you are not good things, seeing as that you're only here because you've been accused of flirting with your (perhaps former) employer's wife…" Alianne shrugged. "Which, frankly, is exactly what I would expect of you."

Feigning a hurt expression, Courfeyrac replied, "I've got some tact, at least. And I'm a law student. That's got to count for _something_."

"No one _likes_ lawyers."

"But everyone needs them!"

"That doesn't mean that anyone actually likes them!"

Mercifully, this argument is cut short as Alianne hears her mother calling for her. "Alianne! Where are you?"

"In the parlor, Maman!" she yells back as she heard the pitter-pat as Elienor Rousseau descends the stairs.

"Your father and I would like to talk to you, now that you're almost twenty," she pokes her head into the parlor, where Alianne and Courfeyrac are now sitting (actually Courfeyrac rises as soon as he sees a lady), "about arranging an…oh," she cuts herself off, startled by the presence of a strange young man in her house.

Noticing the awkwardness (and Courfeyrac's almost-defiant stare), Alianne speaks up. "Um, Maman, this is Nathanael Courfeyrac, one of Thérèse's and Alistair's friends. Courfeyrac, this is my mother. No, we are not romantically attached in any way," she adds hastily to her mother's glare.

Elienor sighs. "Alianne, your father and I need to talk to you privately. If you would be so kind, Mr…"

"Courfeyrac," he says, bowing in a ridiculous fashion he must think looks gallant. "Don't worry, madame, I know when I'm not wanted. I can leave now, if you wish."

Mortified, Madame Rousseau holds up her hands. " No, no, no, you can stay. I just need to, well, _borrow_ Alianne for a moment. If you will, Alianne…" she indicates the doorway.

Alianne steps outside with Madame Rousseau and meekly follows as her mother leads her upstairs to her father's study, where Monsieur Rousseau is waiting, sitting at his desk and rifling through some papers. When he hears the door shut behind his wife and daughter, he looks up. "Ah, Alianne."

She crosses her arms resolutely. "What on earth is this all about?"

He glances at his wife. "You haven't told her yet?" She shakes her head, and he groans. "All right then, well, Alianne, we've decided that you are quite old enough to, well, to marry."

"And I suppose you've already found a suitable husband for me, have you?" Alianne asks, intrigued by this new turn of events despite herself.

Her mother nods. "Yes, we have."

"Is he someone I know, by any chance?" Alianne continues.

"He is. As a matter of fact, he is the older brother of one of your close friends," her father says.

Rolling her eyes, Alianne sighs. "_Mon Dieu_, that's going to be awkward. It's not Nicolas Coté, is it? Or Marcelin Meyette?"

"Language, Alianne," her mother says automatically.

M. Rousseau shakes his head. "No, not Nicolas or Marcelin."

"Then who is it?"

"Christophe Alanis."

"_What_?! How…have you talked to his parents?" Alianne suddenly remembers Sélene's offhand comment in her letter – "That one with the older brother both you and Madelein find quite attractive, right?"

"It's all arranged – there is nothing for you to worry about, dear. We just wanted to make sure that you knew about this," her mother finishes as she ushers Alianne out the door. "Now if you'll be so kind, go usher your gentleman friend out the door and tell him that you are no longer, well, eligible."

_Christophe Alanis…_mon Dieu_, this is like a dream come true! _Alianne thinks. _I can't believe it!_ Then, _damn, why does everything interesting happen _after_ I seal my letters?_

* * *

After a day spent in lectures to which he paid absolutely _no_ attention whatsoever, Alistair is surprised to see that there are two letters waiting in his room. He's pretty sure it hasn't been that long since his mother sent him a letter, and there is no one else that ever sends him letters besides Alianne.

Turns out they're both from her. One is much smaller than the other (and more messily folded and sealed), so he assumes that this one is the more urgent one. And he's right – when he opens it he finds only a short scribbled note.

"August 30th

Just found out a bit of news I thought you might like to hear.  
Wait for it…  
I'm engaged. To Christophe Alanis.

Alianne"

He doesn't know how exactly to react to this "bit of news", but he doesn't think that the news is favorable towards him, at any rate. From what he knows of Christophe Alanis (and he _does_ know plenty, having grown up in the same general society as him), Alistair doesn't think that Christophe is going to take too kindly to his future wife still keeping up a regular correspondence with a man she's always going to be good friends with. And he _is _going to miss Alianne's letters (except for those long ones where she goes on and on about totally inconsequential things).

While he's at it, he decides that it can't hurt to read and answer the other one – after all, it's only six of the clock and he's not meeting Charles Combeferre for dinner until half past seven. Once again, he composes his response as he reads.

"August the 23rd, 1830

Paris, France

Alianne,

No, no, no, _no_. That is not what I meant _at all_. Alianne, would you kindly stop trying to read into what I am saying? I do not think as much over these letters as you (probably) do. How can there be nothing in need of change at your father's business? None at _all_? Impossible. For what it's worth, however, I don't think that you are ever going to pay any heed to me, but let me just say this. You need to change what is in your immediate circle before you can change, say, even just your city. And, by the way, informing people won't do anything by itself. What do you _think_ we do in our free time? Sit around, drink, and play poker? The people, at least those of Paris, _are_ informed. But information is not enough. We need action, and that is why revolutions are needed. Yes, I know, violence is not always the answer, but in some cases it's the only way to go. The people might change, but just because _they_ do doesn't mean the _government_ will.

I would like to drop this subject of me and women. But Prouvaire's rule _does_ make sense – we really don't want Courfeyrac coming in with one of his five thousand ladyfriends on his arm, now, do we? Speaking of Courfeyrac, do you know where he has gone, what with the constant correspondence the two of you keep up? He hasn't been showing up at the Café Musain _or_ Corinth, and I'm getting worried.

And would you like to explain to me _exactly_ why and how you are engaged? And if you've planned a wedding date yet? And if I have an obligation to come? Because I really don't want to come to a wedding. There's too much to be done here in Paris for me to be frivolous and go back to Bordeaux.

Alistair"

He folds this letter up and puts it in his jacket pocket, aiming to go on a walk before he has to meet Combeferre. Courfeyrac has told him of a specific park that the Pontmercy child often walks in, and seeing as that he (Pontmercy, that is, not Courfeyrac) is relatively cultured, Alistair thinks he is going to try that park as well. Not that he cares about gardening or anything. Not at all.

**Another note from tWAtD:**

**That…took a **_**really**_** long time to write. And I do apologize for that, but I honestly just could not find the time. And I don't think I'll be updating any faster later on, what with the end of the school year and exams approaching…:P I HATE SCHOOL WITH ALL OF MY TINY LITTLE HEART.**

**On another note…I think I messed up the ages of the Amis because the part where they are introduced in the book is actually before 1832, but I read them as in 1832. They will **_**not**_** be changed, however, because I am just too lazy. :D  
**

**READ, FAVORITE, FOLLOW, AND REVIEW PLEASE! :D**

**- tWAtD or Kestrel**


	5. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I do not, have not, and will never (I think) own the rights to Les Miserables. **

**Chapter 4**

Obviously, it's not every day that one gets informed that one is to marry only the most attractive man she's ever known. So it should not come as any sort of a surprise to the reader that Alianne cannot think about _anything_ besides marrying Christophe Alanis for a few days. (Consequently, she cannot face Elizabette Alanis either, but that is totally besides the point.) However, she has yet to actually have a face to face talk with Christophe about the engagement and marriage, although their parents are already planning an engagement party. This…is a problem. So she sits down and writes a note to him, taking much more care in her word choice and phrasing than she normally does in her letters. (This also makes the language more stilted than the freeness of her normal writing.) Note that letter-writing is Alianne's preferred form of communication for reasons unknown to all but her.

"August 25th, 1830

Bordeaux, France

Dear Christophe,

I have realized that we have not discussed the matter of our impending marriage since it was arranged and I do believe that it bears discussion, seeing as that it _does _impact the rest of our lives. Because of this, I wish to ask you if you would like to go to the park together (with one of our mothers as chaperone, of course) and take a walk or something of the sort.

Sincerely,

Alianne Rousseau"

She folds this note up, decides not to seal it, and wonders how she is actually supposed to get it to Christophe, now that she thinks about it. Barring that question, however, she's not sure if she actually wishes to discuss anything about the marriage with him. As attractive, rich, and intelligent as he might be, Christophe Mattheiu Alanis is not the, well, shall we say _humblest_ person Alianne knows. As a matter of fact, rarely has she been able to get a word in edgewise when she is "talking" to him. However, that doesn't matter, right? Love is all that matters…

No.

So the fact has been established, Alianne is blinded by love. Love and a pretty face.

* * *

The note gets into Christophe's hands (never mind how), a walk in the park is arranged for the next day, and Alianne is fussing over what to wear with only about an hour left before the meeting. She (finally) decides on a mint green linen dress with sleeves up to her elbows and ruffled trim. Once she has managed to pull back at least the strands of dark brown hair hanging around her face with a black ribbon and powdered her face, she feels that she is ready to go.

Her mother calls from downstairs, "Are you ready, _mon chére_? The fiacre has arrived!" Sighing and checking her reflection in the mirror, Alianne decides that she cannot do anything more to improve her appearance and glides down the stairs; or rather, tries to. She's quite excited, but as showing this emotion would make her seem young and immature, she has to hide it, keeping her face mask-like and serene.

She sees the gleaming black fiacre as soon as she steps out her door, impressed despite herself by the beautiful brown horses, the impeccably dressed coachman, and above all, Christophe's smiling handsome face as he descends the steps of the fiacre and gallantly holds out a hand to Alianne, helping her up into the carriage. "Thank you," she says, smiling at him, imagining that her smile carries the weight of her affection for him behind it. As it is, he smiles back, and Alianne believes that it was in response to her telegraphic message.

For the sake of chastity (for lack of a better word), Madame Rousseau sits in between them and obstructs a real converstation, according to her daughter. Discourse is limited to trivial things: how each of them is doing this fine day, discussion of their siblings' exploits (Elizabette and Jean), things like that. Alianne is itching to ask Christophe about his opinion on the Three Glorious Days, but determines that bringing up this subject would ensure a very awkward discussion. She can't even ask him about any of his political beliefs for fear that he would deem her too well-read and intelligent to be a good wife, which, frankly, she resents.

To be totally honest, the rest of this little walk is not of much interest to anybody, but I will provide the reader with a snippet of the converstation that matters.

"There's only one thing I want to clear up, Christophe. When we get married, how much restriction will you place on my movements?"

"Oh, well, as for that…of course, you'll be allowed to host parties and go to parties with your friends. I suppose charity is a must, even though it's only for show, so please be relatively light on that aspect. Asides from that, I really don't think there is anything else you need to do."

"What about traveling?"

"Traveling? No self-respecting lady needs to travel. Anyways, where would you go?"

"To Paris, maybe, to visit my friend Thérèse, or maybe to Lyon, to visit my friend Seléne…"

"We will cross that bridge when we come to it."

And a summary of the whole incident: Christophe professes his undying love for her, gives her a pearl necklace. They talk about raising children and what Christophe plans to do with his life (not much). Alianne is inexplicibly happy.

* * *

When Alianne gets home, she notices the letter sitting on her desk, presumably delivered by Madame Loussont.

"August the 23rd, 1830

Paris, France

Alianne,

No, no, no, _no_. That is not what I meant _at all_. Alianne, would you kindly stop trying to read into what I am saying? I do not think as much over these letters as you (probably) do. How can there be nothing in need of change at your father's business? None at _all_? Impossible. For what it's worth, however, I don't think that you are ever going to pay any heed to me, but let me just say this. You need to change what is in your immediate circle before you can change, say, even just your city. And, by the way, informing people won't do anything by itself. What do you _think_ we do in our free time? Sit around, drink, and play poker? The people, at least those of Paris, _are_ informed. But information is not enough. We need action, and that is why revolutions are needed. Yes, I know, violence is not always the answer, but in some cases it's the only way to go. The people might change, but just because _they_ do doesn't mean the _government_ will.

I would like to drop this subject of me and women. But Prouvaire's rule _does_ make sense – we really don't want Courfeyrac coming in with one of his five thousand ladyfriends on his arm, now, do we? Speaking of Courfeyrac, do you know where he has gone, what with the constant correspondence the two of you keep up? He hasn't been showing up at the Café Musain _or_ Corinth, and I'm getting worried.

And would you like to explain to me _exactly_ why and how you are engaged? And if you've planned a wedding date yet? And if I have an obligation to come? Because I really don't want to come to a wedding. There's too much to be done here in Paris for me to be frivolous and go back to Bordeaux.

Alistair"

After reading this letter, Alianne is struck by the difference between these two men who she is very fond of. On one side, there is Christophe, charismatic, handsome, rich, intelligent, and…careless. On the other hand, there is Alistair, charismatic, handsome, rich, intelligent, and…impassioned for the people. So why is she so in love with Christophe when obviously Alistair should be more desirable?

She tells herself she doesn't even know the answer to this question. One of the enigmas of life, she supposes. However, she just doesn't want to admit the truth – that she doesn't really want to be involved in Alistair's political missions, that she doesn't want _him_ to be involved in his political missions. And why? Not because she's worried for his safety – she has no worries about Alistair's ability to take care of himself, even if he's not always inclined to do so – but simply because she's selfish. She doesn't want the one she loves (and loves her back) to have something larger to work for, but to devote all of his time and affection towards _her_.

This conclusion that we have drawn would have depressed her very much, had she been able to admit it to herself – she likes to think that she is devoted to equality and freedom for the people, that she has always been devoted to these noble causes. It's a pet indulgence of hers, this belief that she cares about the common people of France, the laborers and the peasants, and even the downtrodden – the women of the town and the criminals that roam the streets at night.

"August 26th, 1830

Bordeaux, France

Alistair,

For heaven's sake, I am a woman. I read into what others say no matter what – it's coded into my genes. Fine then, just answer one question of mine. One only.

Do you believe that women are inherently equal to men?

Okay then. Now that the messy issue is over, we can move on. Perhaps the environment in my father's factory _does_ need change; however, I can not perceive it. To be totally honest, maybe they're being paid a sou a day to work from dawn till dusk and I wouldn't know a thing about it. As a daughter, and the younger child at that, I don't have as much influence with my father as you seem to think I do. As for _revolting_ and _violence_, I would have to say that there is a difference between peaceful protest and an actual revolution. If a government is annoyed enough, they might take action. But enough of this. Why exactly are we even discussing this if we're both pretty satisfied with King Louis-Philippe (so far?)

And anyways, just because _you_ want to drop 'this subject of you and women' doesn't mean it is a moot point. However, I think you are not going to 'waste' any ink or paper on arguing this point with me, so I guess we can drop it. But this rule that you have seems a bit biased. Are you trying to equate me with one of that idiot Courfeyrac's lady friends? That's a bit…offensive, if I do say so myself. However, I do agree with you that he has far too many women hanging off him. _Mon Dieu_, that man is never going to settle down and found a family. Not that I can ever see him doing that. To be completely honest, though, Courfeyrac is a good man at heart. I think.

As for knowing where he has gone, I can tell you, as long as you swear not to tell anybody. Do you remember my friend, the one that got married, Thérèse Lacosse? Courfeyrac works for her husband, Blaise Painchaud. I would hope you knew _that_; anyways, apparently Courfeyrac flirted with Thérèse in front of Blaise, and so they both had to run away before Blaise got Courfeyrac on lechery or whatever. And where do they go? Here. Bordeaux. Josseline Coté's house, to be specific. As a matter of fact, I ran into both of them not too long ago, at a party at the Meyettes'. So don't worry. I don't know when he'll be back, but you can give me a message or something to pass on to him.

Moving on. Do you actually mean that you want me to tell you _exactly _why I'm engaged? And exactly how? Alistair, that last request makes no sense whatsoever. Anyways, my parents just told me that I was getting to be of a marriagable age, and I'm pretty sure they were also thinking that my activities were really getting out of hand and they wanted to keep me respectable (although I have no idea what activities they would mean). So I asked, rhetorically, if they had found me a suitable husband, and they actually answered and told me that yes, they had, and he was the older brother of one of my friends. Naturally I assumed 'friends' meant 'best friends', and so I got a bit nervous and thought that this man was related to one of my best friends, as in either Marcelin Meyette or Nicolas Coté, and you know exactly how _that_ would turn out. But evidently the world 'friend' can also mean 'person of the same gender whom one barely knows', because I am not in any way friends with Elizabette Alanis. So that's the story.

Actually, I went on a walk with him in the park this morning. To be totally and completely honest, his attitude towards women disturbs me. At least he's not the overly flirtatious type (unlike Courfeyrac; however, I must say that I like Courfeyrac a lot better). However, as much as we _think_ we have advanced in matters of love, marriage (at least in the higher classes) is based more on social standing than love, so I think I can deal with my prospective husband being biased against women's rights. For heaven's sake though, he doesn't think I should have _any _political views at all! Ah well, I shouldn't worry about it. He's charming, and rich, and handsome, and I suppose I should be extraordinarily happy to have him as my future husband. Don't get me wrong, I am. And no, we do not have a date set yet, though I'm hoping for next summer…

An obligation to come to _my _wedding? Of course you have an obligation to come! Alistair, you are one of my very best friends. It's ever so slightly _insane_ for you to even think that you don't have to come. If I don't force you to, your parents will make you. Anyways, you're not being frivolous. Honestly, I don't think you _can _be frivolous.

Alianne"

* * *

After a long day of classes, Alistair goes to the Café Musain for the weekly meeting of Les Amis de ABCs and is not happy with what he sees. Prouvaire sitting in a corner with Joly and writing a play or something, Combeferre trying to teach Grantaire about politics while the latter is intoxicated, Bossuet rubbing Joly's latest hair-growing concoction on his head, Feuilly in another corner talking about his Polish girl to anyone who would pretend to listen, and that awkward fellow Pontmercy mooning over _his_ mysterious girl in the park.

He misses Courfeyrac, he thinks. Even if 'Feyrac is the kind of person who laughs at everything and never takes anything seriously. At least he is good at grabbing people's attention. Alistair, himself? He's good at keeping it.

He notices some people he hasn't seen in a while – some who aren't part of their core group but share the same ideals nevertheless, people who meet with other groups in other areas of Paris but are still in the brotherhood of freedom. Take, for example, that Lucas Eransierre over there with a sketchbook and pencil he's nibbling on. Alistair has talked to him before – he judges Eransierre to be fit and capable, although he tends to draw random people he sees when he's bored. Next to him – Philippe Loraine, a leader of the group of students that meets at the Café de Couler Ambre, the Café of Flowing Amber. In other words, a bar; yet Alistair still holds them in the highest respect.

Giving up on trying to get everybody's attention, Alistair decides to go back home and study for an exam, perhaps picking up his mail on the way. Noticing him leave, Grantaire asks, "Whe'ya goin'?"

"Home. To study. And to pick up my mail," Alistair answers shortly, putting on his hat.

Laughing, Grantaire comments to Combeferre, "I think our Apollo 'as finally got hisself a girl…"

Hearing this, Alistair sighs and makes his way to the post office and then home. Locking the door, he tears open the one letter in his hand – from Alianne – and begins to compose his reply.

"August the 29th, 1830

Paris, France

Alianne,

That is actually not a simple question at all. To be totally honest, we have to define _men_ first. Taken as a whole, I think yes, women are equal to men, because there are airheads on both sides of that equation. However, there are some women, like you, who are much more valuable than some men, like Simon Grantaire.

You are still a child of your father. Surely you must have _some_ influence, enough to change _something_. _Mon Dieu_, you can pull the whiny compassionate little girl card, even though we both know you are not even _close_ to being either whiny or overly compassionate. Anyways, annoying the government isn't necessarily a good idea if one doesn't have the force to back it up. It would just lead to bloodshed.

Yes, it is too a moot point. But I do not want to discuss this subject anymore. As for 'equating you with one of Courfeyrac's lady friends', it was just an illustration, for heaven's sake. You are at least not as shallow as one of them; believe me, I would know. That man needs to settle down if he is capable of doing so. However, there is more worth in him than one would guess from first sight – he helps keep our little band together.

Seriously? He escaped to Bordeaux because his employer was going to get him on lechery? Typical. Would you mind passing on this message: "Nathanael Courfeyrac, you are an idiot." Thank you very much.

You know what I meant about 'exactly why you're engaged'. Honestly, though, what on earth do you see in him? I'm not jealous or anything, but he's not going to let you do anything that helps advance the cause once you two get married.

And I'm not going to come to your wedding. So there.

Alistair"

**Sorry guys. I really don't know what happened with this chapter except that I had **_**no idea whatsoever**_** what to write. It was still short, so I apologize:P And, funny story, I have like three other chapters pretty much written (but they don't come up for about a story-line year :P) Please review and favorite as always yay yay yay**

**-tWAtD or Kestrel**


	6. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: Does anyone still think that I own Les Mis? No? Good. **

**Chapter 5**

It's been two weeks since Alianne has last heard from Nathanael Courfeyrac, and to be totally and completely honest, she is marginally worried about him. Not that he's unable to take care of himself or anything, but just that he tends to get into all sorts of trouble, especially when a woman is involved. She wouldn't put it past him to have tried to see her again, only to be turned away by Madame Loussont or somebody. However, she also realizes the fact that the post is being slow (again), because she hasn't gotten a letter back from Alistair in that time frame either.

So Alianne decides to at least write a letter (well, note, really, by her standards) to Courfeyrac, care of…who? Thérèse is the one most likely to know his whereabouts, but Alianne feels that it's wisest not to associate Thérèse with Courfeyrac for a while yet. Josseline then – she's safe enough, Alianne supposes. Nic Coté is the last person anyone would expect to be an overprotective older brother, and Joss herself is as demure and chaste a girl as one could expect Alianne's best friend to be, so she wouldn't be running the risk of, oh, she has no idea. Linking Joss with Courfeyrac and making it seem like she knows his whereabouts? But the gossip vultures will divebomb anything that looks like it may provide a scrap of meat.

"September 7th, 1830

Bordeaux, France

To M. Nathanael Courfeyrac,

Where in blazes are you? Yes, I know that wasn't entirely _decent_ language for a 'lady of standing' to use, but I'm getting miffed. And worried. Get back to me as soon as possible, will you? It's not as if we have to stop writing letters to each other or anything. I'm not married yet and they're not love letters.

Mademoiselle Alianne Rousseau"

This done, she seals it, addresses it to "M. Nathanael Courfeyrac, care of Mademoiselle Josseline Coté, No. 46 Rue Wiledonne, Bordeaux, France", and trots downstairs to place it in her father's large pile of mail. Two letters lying to the side of another pile of opened mail catch her eye, and she bends over to examine them further.

They're the missing letters from Alistair and Courfeyrac, opened and apparently read and reread. Inwardly, she says a few choice words that would have more befitted a woman of the night than a young lady of her social standing, but at this point she doesn't care much anymore. Not when her parents have read letters that were meant for _her_.

She picks up and reads the first one – the one from Alistair.

"August the 29th, 1830

Paris, France

Alianne,

That is actually not a simple question at all. To be totally honest, we have to define _men_ first. Taken as a whole, I think yes, women are equal to men, because there are airheads on both sides of that equation. However, there are some women, like you, who are much more valuable than some men, like Simon Grantaire.

You are still a child of your father. Surely you must have _some_ influence, enough to change _something_. _Mon Dieu_, you can pull the whiny compassionate little girl card, even though we both know you are not even _close_ to being either whiny or overly compassionate. Anyways, annoying the government isn't necessarily a good idea if one doesn't have the force to back it up. It would just lead to bloodshed.

Yes, it is too a moot point. But I do not want to discuss this subject anymore. As for 'equating you with one of Courfeyrac's lady friends', it was just an illustration, for heaven's sake. You are at least not as shallow as one of them; believe me, I would know. That man needs to settle down if he is capable of doing so. However, there is more worth in him than one would guess from first sight – he helps keep our little band together.

Seriously? He escaped to Bordeaux because his employer was going to get him on lechery? Typical. Would you mind passing on this message: "Nathanael Courfeyrac, you are an idiot." Thank you very much.

You know what I meant about 'exactly why you're engaged'. Honestly, though, what on earth do you see in him? I'm not jealous or anything, but he's not going to let you do anything that helps advance the cause once you two get married.

And I'm not going to come to your wedding. So there.

Alistair"

_August 29_? _Damn_, she curses. _So long ago._ Then she wonders why her parents kept this letter away from her for so long – there's nothing that they should be either offended by or in disapproval of. So she debates whether to take it with her back to her room or leave it sitting on her father's desk as if she hadn't touched it – she chooses the former, reasoning that there would be no good way to bring up or resolve this issue unless she is honest from the beginning. Having decided this, she moves on to the other letter.

"August the 30th, 1830

Somewhere between Bordeaux and Paris

Alianne,

So I'm sitting here in a drafty old inn writing this letter. Why am I here? Because Lady Thérèse Painchaud (note the sarcasm) ordered me to go back to Paris. By myself. I dislike traveling by myself. By the time you get this letter, however, I will probably already be in Paris and will, in addition, be listening to Georges Feuilly going on and on about Poland or that awkward fellow (as Enjolras calls him) Marius Pontmercy, my roommate, moping around and telling me multiple times how he lost his Ursule. As if she was his to begin with. He's a very nice person, of course, but extraordinarily naïve and stupid. And he doesn't know how to dress – what kind of person dresses in all black? For heaven's sake, a few days before I had to go to Bordeaux, I noticed that his coat was getting threadbare, so I gave him my old green one. Now he refuses to go out during the day because only at nighttime is his coat black now. Just between the two of us, he needs to learn to live.

By the way, what is this I hear about you being engaged? That seems so…strange. Not in a bad way, of course, but I simply cannot see you settling down to be a housewife. To be honest, though, I don't know you as well as I think I do, and I suppose you don't know me as well as you think you do either, so we are perfectly even. Still, though, I can't imagine the Alianne Rousseau I know settling down, managing a household and having children and all that. Who's the lucky man?

I guess from now on you can send mail to the same address you used to send it to. Well, I relatively enjoyed being able to talk with you, face to face, again!

M. Nathanael Courfeyrac"

This letter reads like a typical letter from Courfeyrac – one that jumps from one random topic to another one without any visible link, that has at least one sentence of totally awkward grammar or punctuation (in this case, the last one) and that is for some odd reason intensely entertaining to read, extraordinarily short as it is (by Alianne's standards, at least).

She takes this letter as well and goes back up to her room to compose two new letters, one to each of the men. (She has to think for a moment before remembering what the question she had asked Alistair was in the first place…it's been so long.)

"September 7th, 1830

Bordeaux, France

Alistair,

That is such an obvious way of evading the question. What do you mean, there are airheads on both sides of the equation? Anyways, from what I've heard from Nathanael Courfeyrac, this Simon Grantaire is an unreliable drunkard. If you told me that no, I wasn't as valuable as him, I would be forced to hire an assassin to kill you. What do you think of, say, people like Josseline Coté as opposed to people like Courfeyrac?

I think I should have already established the simple fact that _there is nothing that I know about that needs to be changed_. Nothing at all. Anyways, can you see me turning into a 'whiny compassionate little girl'? And would my father believe that? _Mon Dieu_, Alistair, I think you've lost your mind.

Now I feel that you're arguing in circles. First you tell me that we need to take action, and then you say that annoying the government will lead to bloodshed. Which are you trying to push? Revolution _is_ bloodshed, Alistair. For heaven's sake, I would have thought you had already taken that into consideration!

As for Courfeyrac, I did not have the chance to pass on your message for two reasons. Number one, my parents kept from me both the letter from you dated August 29th and a letter from Courfeyrac telling me where he was going. Only today did I get them back, and that without my parents' permission. Number two, the last I heard of Courfeyrac was that Thérèse had sent him back to Paris. So by the time you get this letter I would expect that you had already seen him and told him to his face.

Not jealous or anything? It sounds like jealousy to me. But as you wish; I will let you play this little game and keep some of your dignity. You have a point, though. I'm going to have to figure out a way to keep him from finding out, well, you know what I'm talking about.

Another thing – I've been thinking about coming or going or whatever is the correct word to Paris to study. Yes, I know, it would entail dressing up as a man and putting on an elaborate charade. I can act. You know that. So, would you be able to help me find lodgings, a job, and, well, a school that could accept me? Not for this year, of course – it's too late for that. The next, though.

Alianne"

She seals this one, addresses it, and moves on.

"September 7th, 1830

Bordeaux, France

M. Nathanael Courfeyrac,

I apologize for not having responded to your letter earlier. You see, my parents had, for some obscure reason unknown to me, confiscated two letters addressed to me – yours and Alistair's. I only got it today, and then only without my parents' knowledge or permission. So I hope that you arrived in Paris safely and got Alistair's message to you. If not, here I repeat it again: 'Nathanael Courfeyrac, you are an idiot.' Oh, and by the way, that mirrors my own sentiments too.

Why on earth did Thérèse send you back to Paris? Is it the start of the academic year or something like that? And why would she care? It doesn't seem like something she would do…

Thank you for that vote of confidence, Courfeyrac. I appreciate it. Truly. Not. But yes, I am getting married in the summer to a Christophe Alanis. And I'll try to get you invited, but you're only allowed to come if you bring that stubborn bastard (excuse my language) Alistair Enjolras, just to teach him a lesson.

If you want to teach him another lesson – one about his strange aversion to women – do this: get the most infuriating and airheaded woman you can find, brainwash her into thinking that Alistair is a veritable hero, and tell her that you're taking her to see him. Place the two of them in a room, alone, and see what happens.

Alianne"

The easy part is over. Now the hard part begins – talking to her parents.

* * *

When she goes downstairs for dinner, she has the two letters addressed to her tucked in her sleeve, intending to pull them out and flourish them dramatically at the proper time. However, her plan fails, as she is wearing a dress with sleeves tight to the elbow and trimmed with lace less than an inch long, and her mother can see the bulges in her sleeves. Her father, on the other hand, is being a typical man and hasn't noticed anything amiss, not even the fact that the letters were missing from his study. (We must remember that during this time period, the famed Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street, London, England, is not in business just yet.)

However, Alianne sits down and starts eating as if nothing is wrong, and her mother soon dismisses the awkward lumps in her left sleeve. The familial* small talk begins, and Alianne relaxes. Her brother is home for a night or two before continuing on to Orleans, and she probably won't be scolded in front of him. However, this means that she will have to bring up the issue of the letters herself, and she wrestles with herself for a moment before taking the leap of faith. After all, it isn't as if she isn't allowed in her father's study to drop off letters for the post.

Deciding to make it as informal as possible to give her parents the most leeway to smooth the situation over, Alianne starts, "Papa, Maman, I was dropping off some letters today and I noticed these two sitting on Papa's desk." She takes the letters from Courfeyrac and Enjolras out of her sleeve and places them on the table, pushing her half-empty plate to the side. "One's dated August 29th and the other one is dated August 30th. Just out of curiousity, why did I only get them today? Has the post from Paris been delayed?"

Her parents look at each other, wondering what to say, while Jean sits there blithely eating his food. Finally Elienor breaks the silence. "Yes, we've been meaning to talk to you about that. You see, now that you're engaged to be married, it would be best if you stopped corresponding with men your age other than your husband-to-be," she says, frowning slightly in anticipation of the outburst she thinks is coming.

Instead, Alianne pulls her plate back in front of her and continues eating, munching thoughtfully on a chunk of potato as she answers, "But what harm could it do?"

"It could harm your reputation, for one – make you seem like some shameless hussy who doesn't care a whit for her fiancé. Which might lead to him breaking off the engagement. Which we _obviously_ don't want," her mother says.

"Would you mind explaining to me exactly _how_ it makes me seem like a 'shameless hussy'? It isn't as if I'm secretly sleeping with either of them. Am I not allowed to correspond with my friends without being harshly judged, just because we are not of the same gender?" Alianne asks, putting her fork down.

Elienor sighs. "Which question shall I answer first, the first one or the second?"

"Whichever one you prefer," her daughter replies. "As long as you answer both of them."

"Well then, I'll start with the second one. You're not being harshly judged, but people will jump to conclusions. Normal women don't write long letters every week to normal men unless they're in love, if you get my meaning," Madame Rousseau says, glancing at her husband.

Alianne rolls her eyes. "I understand perfectly what you're trying to say and I'm completely aware that Alistair, Nathanael Courfeyrac and I are not normal people. Normal ladies don't write letters about politics, or even know anything _about_ politics for that matter. And normal men don't have totally platonic relationships with ladies their age unless they're related in some way."

"But the rest of the world doesn't know that, do they, Alianne? I understand your relationship with Alistair, at least, but nobody else knows the two of you well enough to understand. Especially Christophe – naturally, he is going to assume that Alistair is still courting you," Elienor explains delicately.

"_Still courting_?" Alianne exclaims, indignant. "Since when were we romantically involved with each other in _any_ way?"

Her mother shrugs. "To be honest, dear, everyone has thought that he was trying to get you to marry him from the moment he understood what marriage was."

Rolling her eyes again, Alianne mutters, "As if he understands what marriage is now. Anyways," she adds to her mother, "you haven't answered my first question yet. How exactly does writing non-love letters to two of my friends make me seem like a shameless hussy?"

Elienor hems and haws for a bit before answering. "Well, um, you see, that was somewhat a figure of speech…"

"But she has a point," Émeric Rousseau breaks in, having finally decided it was time for him to break in and say something. "People would think that you don't care about fidelity and staying true to your husband if you kept up such a regular communication with other men."

"Why does it matter what others think?" Alianne asks, incensed. "Do _they_ control my life?"

"They could," her mother says. "If rumors are spread, your reputation will be destroyed."

Sighing, she responds,"And why does my reputation matter?"

"It could make or break your husband's business as well, Alianne. If it's whispered that he can't even keep his wife, there is no way he would get clients," her father explains.

"He isn't planning to be a businessman, Papa. He's going to live solely off his inheritance and mine," Alianne retorts.

Her brother, Jean, looks up from his plate and raises a finger, pointing to Alianne. "Point."

"Well?" She crosses her arms. "Do you have anything more to say?"

"Having a bad reputation could also make _you_ very uncomfortable," Elienor adds. "Do you want to be known as 'that woman'?"

"Well, no…" Alianne admits. "But that still doesn't change the original issue. Why must I stop corresponding with Alistair and Courfeyrac?"

Elienor pretends to be shocked. "Stop corresponding with them? We never said that!"

"Yes, you did, and I quote, 'it would be best if you stopped corresponding with men your age other than your husband-to-be'," Alianne replies.

"I said that it would be best. It's a suggestion, not an order."

Surprised, Alianne asks,"When did you start acting like this?"

"When I realized that making you stop would just lead to you going behind our backs."

"So I'm allowed to write letters to them?"

"If we don't know it's happening, we don't take any action," Elienor smiles.

"Well, that's a conclusive answer."

"Christophe better not hear of it either."

* * *

The school year started not a week ago, and Alistair is already so weighed down by classes to attend, papers to write, and politics professors to prove wrong that he's tempted to cancel the night's meeting of the Amis. However, he has heard through the grapevine (well, through Joly and Bossuet, who practically _are_ the grapevine) that Courfeyrac is back, and he needs to talk to him. Especially now that Alianne still hasn't written back, and it's been two weeks.

The sight that greets him as he walks in the door is not as hopeless as he thought it would be – Simon Grantaire asleep in a corner surrounded by bottles, Jehan Prouvaire and that fellow Eransierre (who seems to be Loraine's lieutenant) deciding to be artsy and drawing an elaborate (and gigantic) map of France, Charles Combeferre deep in converstation with Loraine, and – thank the Lord – that twit of a lawyer Pontmercy is nowhere to be seen. No Courfeyrac in sight, though, unfortunately.

"Enjolras!" Bossuet comes up behind him and claps him on the shoulder. "You've been somewhat down lately. I want to introduce you to a friend of mine." He takes Alistair by the shoulders and turns him around, walking him back into the main room.

Confused by the seemingly abrupt change of subject, Alistair complies mutely until he sees the 'friend' he's supposed to meet. "Not another girl. Joseph Lesgles, I'm pretty sure we've been over this already. I don't work well with women."

"You don't need to work with her, Alistair. Just relax." Bossuet smiles and goes back into the back room, and Alistair can vaguely hear him announce, "Stage 1 successful."

Sighing, Alistair turns to the…creature in front of him. As expected, he is unable to even lift his eyes to meet hers. Deciding to be blunt, he says, "Mademoiselle, you and I both know that I don't want to be here."

Her high, chirping voice surprises him, and he (almost) looks up. "Don't worry, monsieur, we'll be just fine together!" She pauses, and he feels that she is waiting for something, but he refuses to comply. Finally, with an almost inaudible sigh, the creature says, "My name is Marie-Suzetta Perfiecette and I'm seventeen years old!"

"I refuse to have any dealings with some teenage gamine," Alistair mutters, hoping she doesn't hear. _Go away. Go away._

But she does hear him, and she responds, "Oh, don't worry, I'm perfectly mature. Now, monsieur, how about a kiss?" she asks as she leans inwards.

Alistair's already had enough of this. He turns around and marches into the back room, slamming the door as he yells, "Whose brilliant idea was that? Bossuet?" The bald student shakes his head as everyone in the room falls silent, surprised and somewhat cowed by their logical leader's emotional outburst. Everyone except for some man in the back corner, that is, and Alistair can hear him snickering. He recognizes that snickering. "_Nathanael Courfeyrac_!" he thunders as he strides over to him. "You return to Paris after a month with no word from you at all, and this is your first action?"

"Actually, Alianne suggested it," Courfeyrac responds, smirking. "You have to admit, it was pretty funny.

Disgusted, Alistair whirls around to the back entrance and…_pounds_ downstairs. At the bottom, he yells, "Nathanael Courfeyrac, you are an _idiot._"

"Strange, that's exactly what she told me," Courfeyrac yells back.

"You…talked to that _Marie-Suzetta _creature?" Alistair asks, horrified despite himself.

Courfeyrac rolls his eyes. "No, Alianne Rousseau, you dimwit!"

Fed up with Courfeyrac and his antics, Alistair storms home to write to Alianne and demand if she really told Courfeyrac to perform such an horrible act. He stops by the post office out of habit, and surprisingly, there is a letter waiting for him. He takes it home, but it is a while before he is calm enough to compose a reply.

"September 9th, 1830

Paris, France

Alianne,

Were you responsible for forcing a creature that calls itself 'Marie-Suzetta Perfiecetta' on me through Courfeyrac? Because if you were, I swear, I don't care if you're a woman and this is the 19th century, I'm going to challenge you to a duel. And I will win, no matter how much of a sharpshooter you think you are. Don't even ask me for the details of that incident – I don't care to think about it at all. Write Courfeyrac about it, if you are interested.

On to the more important things. Now _that's_ a hard question. Don't send that assassin after me, but between people like Mademoiselle Coté and people like Courfeyrac, I personally would think that Courfeyrac's type is more valuable, even as demonic as he is, just because he's more worldly and more knowledgable.

You could at least make the effort to see if there is anything that needs to be changed, Alianne. There is no way that everything's just perfect in your little world. None. Anyways, I suppose it is possible for you to convince your father that you've changed…

Why did they keep our letters from you? It's not as if there is anything offensive in any of them! Note that I speak for myself only, not Courfeyrac. However, you are right, I already have had the chance to tell him that he is an idiot; however, he responded that you had already told him. Explain, please.

I will not even dignify your accusation of jealousy with a response.

To be honest, I would welcome your company here if it meant that I would be free from some of the less…sane members of the Amis. But as for all that paraphenalia you need to live, I warn you, life on your own in a city like Paris will be much cruder than what you're used to, especially if you wish to masquerade as a man. Anyways, what do you want to study?

Alistair"

_* Yes, that says familial. As in related to the family. I'm pretty sure I made that up. But it's not a typo. (The nitpicker in me made me write this note :P)_

**Happily-sized chapter! And relatively quick update! And some almost-action! And an almost-intrusion of the Mary Sue (whose last name I CANNOT PRONOUNCE)! Yay! I like this chapter! Do you? REVIEW AND TELL ME!**

**Shout-out to the wonderful stagepageandscreen just because she is awesome. And because her stories are amazing. :D **

**And no, before you pounce on me, I'm not a Sherlock fan, meaning that I simply don't watch the show because I don't have the time nor the means to watch it.**

**SO SCHOOL IS FINALLY OUT. YAY. THIS MEANS I **_**MIGHT**_** UPDATE FASTER, BUT NO PROMISES. **

**- tWAtD or Kestrel**


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